


Five Time Molly Solved Sherlock's Case

by asarahworld



Series: It's an "Ear" Hat [1]
Category: BBC Sherlock
Genre: F/M, Five Plus One
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-22
Updated: 2016-08-16
Packaged: 2018-04-27 14:46:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 2,755
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5052766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asarahworld/pseuds/asarahworld
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of one-shots.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“Sherlock!” Molly Hooper raised her voice. She had been standing behind the consulting detective for at least five minutes and he was steadfastly ignoring her. Out of exasperation, she unplugged the microscope into which he was intently peering.

“Molly, I am in the middle of examine this woman’s blood.” Sherlock reached down to turn the instrument back on, only to find a petite hand covering the switch. He finally looked up, unconsciously turning a pair of large puppy eyes towards the pathologist.

She blinked, caught off-guard by Sherlock’s expression. “It, it’s not in the blood.” Molly told him briskly, turning back to the body of recently-deceased Andrea McKellan.

It’s not in the blood. Sherlock began rearranging the case room in his mind palace. “Of course,” he breathed. “It’s completely obvious. It was in her stomach. The suspect takes her out for lunch, on the pretense of…” His eyes scanned the body once more. Library card. Unrelated. Drugs? Molly would have mentioned that; it would be present in a blood sample, anyway.

“Not a bad deduction,” Sherlock looked up to see the pathologist smirking at him. “Entirely incorrect, I’m afraid. Anaphylactic shock. I’m certain you saw the cells were sick…” Molly trailed off, uncertain of the detective’s expression.

Sherlock nodded, busy in his mind palace, piecing Molly’s story together.

“Not poisoned. Just sick. But when a person goes into anaphylactic shock, their body has no time. They need antihistamines immediately. This may have been deliberate, but it wasn’t poison.” She concluded, looking up to see Sherlock already calling the DI, telling him that the case had been solved and that he was already hailing a cab from St. Bart’s. Molly’s eyes followed him as he disappeared, a faint half-smile fading from her face. “Thanks, Molly,” she muttered as she began preparing the body.


	2. Two

“Anderson, SHUT UP!” Molly looked up, half-stunned and half-amused as a certain consulting detective swept into the lab, followed by a gawky policeman. She inwardly sighed, already pulling her clipboard off the desk, for she had just completed an autopsy and had just shed her gloves and lab coat. Molly quickly shrugged back into the less than pristine coat and plastered a smile on her face.

“And who are you visiting today, Sherlock?” Molly cringed internally as she snapped at the detective, who didn’t appear to notice her rudeness.

“Jennifer Price, found yesterday behind the Charlotte Hotel,” Sherlock answered succinctly, ignoring the look of wonder on the policeman’s face. Idiot was probably curious as to how he had figured out where the woman had been found. Never mind that his files were currently half hanging out of his briefcase. “American, studying at the…. At King’s College on a scholarship.” The woman was wearing a small pin on her jacket, deigning the university’s emblem, as well as the program. While well-dressed, she was not wearing up to date fashion, nor did she carry an umbrella or anorak suitable for the sudden rain London was apt to experience.

“24 years of age, in otherwise perfect health apart from the fact that she is dead,” Molly scanned her notes briefly.

“Friends say that she was studious, rarely went to parties, and went to bed in the dormitory at nine Tuesday night. Price was gone to the library early Wednesday morning, so her roommates say.” Anderson listed, trying to show off in front of an audience.

“Price’s routine was to go to the library. Obviously, she didn’t go to the library that Wednesday.” Sherlock began to pace, irritated. Price was found at the Charlotte Hotel, one point five miles from the college. “She was in perfect health,” he repeated Molly’s words from earlier, zeroing in on the specific meaning. Sherlock lifted the sleeve covering the body’s arm. As he had suspected, it was covered in bruises. Subconsciously, he wrapped his hand around the arm, his fingers roughly matching the bruised pattern.

Bile began to rise in Sherlock’s throat. “This woman was raped, and murdered,” he said coldly. Left for dead in the alley. “Dressed in an older style suit, she was on her way to meet someone. A date. Probably arranged at the last minute. The pin on her jacket is on the wrong side; she normally wears it on the left – there are tiny holes on the left lapel but none on the right. She dressed in a hurry. Her skirt caught on the pavement, there are several runs that run parallel to each other. They were obviously created at the same time.”

“There’s no sign of forced…entry, on the woman,” Molly could have kicked herself. What terrible, awkward phrasing to say that the autopsy revealed no indication that the woman had been raped.

“It began consensually,” Sherlock replied, irritated. “It began consensually,” he repeated, slower. “Molly, that’s it!” He exclaimed, disappearing from the morgue immediately.

“I suppose that I’d better go after him,” Anderson sniffed. “Thinks he’s superior to everyone.”

“Isn’t that why you brought me to the crime scene?” Sherlock poked his head back into the morgue and winked at Molly. “Are we going to go and arrest Richard Dawkins or hang around a body all day?”

“Richard Dawkins?” Anderson looked up at Sherlock, confused.

“Yes, Richard Dawkins. Do keep up, Anderson.” Sherlock left once more, this time leaving Molly alone in the morgue.


	3. Imagine your OTP resting their chin on the other's head.

"Sherlock Holmes, what the hell do you think you're doing?" The pathologist asked angrily, swivelling her chair as the consulting detective cautiously backed away. He'd had his nose in her hair, she was certain of it. "I'd thought we'd agreed that you'd stop trying to deduce what shampoo I use." Molly was proud of herself, standing up against the detective's borderline invasive deductions.

"Honey lemon with a chai infusion," was his response.

"Wrong again," Molly responded angrily, muttering under her breath about how infuriating consulting detectives were. Why he felt the need to deduce absolutely everything within his bloody sight was beyond her. She stiffened, sensing Sherlock's nose in her hair. "Are you interested in my report or not?" Molly asked, confused by Sherlock's abnormal behaviour.

"Not particularly. The victim is obviously meant to look as if she were strangled.” His tone had suddenly become louder, clipped and professional. He'd straightened his back and was now pacing the morgue, texting, presumably, John or one of the DI's from New Scotland Yard.

Molly didn't know why she'd put him off like that. She supposed it was a sense of professional courtesy, but in her heart, she knew that the simple reason was that Sherlock’s abnormal behaviour had scared her. It wasn't like him. Sherlock Holmes made rude and personal deductions often enough, but he was always... Not impartial, but disconnected from the reality of the relevant situation. As much as he'd deny it, Sherlock lived in a bubble. Deductions was a game. The real world was a chessboard. No, not a chessboard that would require a second willing participant. Molly, while unsure of the accurate analogy, knew that Sherlock did not consider the human element/variable/whatever in so many instances.

“Obviously," she replied frigidly. "Which means that it was staged to look like an accident, which means there's going to be security footage of something somewhere."

She still couldn't tell whether Sherlock was ignoring her or not as he swept out the door, no doubt on his way to investigate the security footage.


	4. Chapter Four

Sherlock strode into the mortuary, Olivia strapped to his chest under his greatcoat. Molly looked from the baby to the detective, lips pursed in an effort to conceal her amusement.

“Sherlock,” Molly greeted him, busying herself with the paperwork for a ‘Susan Wright’ that had recently passed through her workplace.

“I have a, personal favour to ask.” Sherlock lowered his voice.

“Go ahead,” Molly tucked a stray hair behind her ear, briefly looking down at the floor.

“I, ah, require assistance.” And with this, London’s most celebrated private detective un-Velcro’ed Olivia from her harness and thrust her at St. Bartholomew’s pathologist.

“She’s not dead,” Molly said dryly.

“I know,” was the consulting detective’s response.

“What am I supposed to do with her?” Molly asked blandly, swallowing her rising panic.

“She requires assistance.” Sherlock involuntarily wrinkled his nose.

“You don’t know how to change a nappy?” Molly asked incredulously. In some ways, Sherlock had prepared for the Watsons’ baby even more than they had.

“The practical application is quite different than when using a model,” Sherlock replied stiffly.

“And you brought her, dirty, to me because…”

“I require assistance.” Panic shone through Sherlock’s eyes, though he was quite adept at concealing his emotions.

“I don’t know anything about babies. Take her upstairs to the maternity ward.” Molly turned back to her paperwork.

“Molly.” That’s all he said, but his use of her name for the first time since he had entered the mortuary had an enticing effect on the pathologist.

“It can’t be that difficult,” Molly sighed, clearing and wiping a nearby table. “Put her down.”

Sherlock placed Olivia on the table, and then turned to remove the baby harness. He then brought up a large bag, filled with: nappies, powders, wipes, zippy bags, plastic gloves, creams, pacifiers, onesies, and a first aid kit. Molly raised an eyebrow, saying nothing, before turning to the baby.

“Well, the dirty nappy ought to come off first, I suppose,” Molly said, half to herself. She carefully pulled the tabs and the diaper opened, the front end falling back toward the table. “Bag!” Molly yelped as the smell of pee and feces emanated from the small human. A zippy bag, as well as the gloves, was quickly provided. Molly gladly pulled the plastic gloves over her hands and disposed of the dirty nappy into the bag, handing it back to Sherlock. “That smells worse than the bodies. It’s not staying in here,” she said sternly, her voice shaking slightly.

Now that the worst had been removed, Molly peered at the baby. She reached for a new pair of gloves, not wanting to: a) possibly infect Olivia with any residual bacteria on her hands or b) have baby poop touch her. “I suppose we ought to finish cleaning you,” she said to Olivia and pulled the wipes from Sherlock’s changing bag. Molly thought back to the mandatory class she’d taken in med school on babies, suddenly thankful for the excess of information about the care of them. Molly wiped the baby, front to back, and quickly disposed of the dirty wipe. She used another finish cleaning Olivia’s arse. Molly then used the cream around the baby’s legs where the nappy had chafed her and pulled the clean nappy underneath her. She noticed dermatitis beginning to form on the baby’s bum and pulled the baby powder from the bag. Molly quickly fastened the nappy and looked around for Sherlock, only to realize that he’d disappeared, presumably to dispose of the dirty nappy. “Wanker,” she muttered, turning back to the baby. “I suppose you’re done.” Olivia fussed, reaching forward.

Molly picked Olivia up from the table. “Better?” She asked the infant, who gurgled, happily pulling at Molly’s hair. “Want to see a dead body? You need to promise that you won’t tell John,” she said sternly. Molly carried Olivia over to the cold chamber and pulled it open. Olivia cooed happily and was reaching for the corpse when Sherlock strode through   
the door.

“I, ehrm, had to telephone John. We were supposed to stay at Baker Street,” he said brashly, though Molly detected a hint of embarrassment.

“Well, I suppose you ought to be headed back then.” A faint smirk crossed Molly’s face as she handed the baby back to Sherlock. “How was it that you learned to fold napkin swans?”

“YouTube.” Sherlock was quick to answer. Molly handed him the bag.


	5. Five

“You look sad…when you think he can’t see you.”  
“I don’t count.”  
“If there's anything I can do, anything you need, anything at all, you can have me.”

Molly’s words echoed in his head. Time and time again, he had tried shoving everything into the deepest, darkest recesses of his mind palace, but Molly Hooper kept popping back up. Sherlock stood abruptly.

“It’s obvious, isn’t it?” He said loudly. “The wife killed her husband and his lover, closed the window and locked the door from the inside before closing it. She then proceeded to shoot herself in an ordinarily non-fatal location, which gave her enough time to dispose of the weapon and get herself back to the flat before she died.”

“That’s a marvelous theory, Sherlock,” said Lestrade. Sherlock thought that the Detective Inspector sounded a bit sarcastic, but he was rubbish at reading human emotion, not that he would ever admit to such an inadequacy.

“You look sad…when you think he can’t see you.”

“No.” Sherlock muttered.

“Sorry?” Lestrade inquired, but the Consulting Detective didn’t appear to hear him. “Are you making a new theory, then? What is it now, the cat did it?”

“Don’t be so ridiculous, Graham.” Sherlock replied, clearly irritated. He had opened himself up to someone. He had made himself vulnerable.

“Sherlock!” Lestrade called after him, coat billowing in the wind. Sherlock ignored the policeman and flagged a taxi.

“Bart’s.” He told the driver curtly. The drive was silent, which in itself was not unusual.

Sherlock loped through the hospital entrance, down to the mortuary.

“MOLLY!” He bellowed. The mousy pathologist looked up from the corpse she was examining. “Why?” He asked curtly.

Molly was, understandably, confused. “Why what?” She bit back a retort.

“You still think that you are nothing,” Sherlock clarified. “You don’t count. You’ve forgotten, already, that because Moriarty underestimated you, I was able to fake my death and take him out. Molly,” Sherlock put on what he hoped was a tender expression, “you can see me,” he finished, dramatically lowering his voice.

Molly turned back to her table to continue her work.

“Answer the question, Molly. Please.” His voice was soft.

It was the use of her name, more than anything, that Molly decided to answer.

“When… when you were deducing J-Jim, or at Christmas,” Molly paused, stifling a shudder of horror at the memory of James Moriarty. She sighed. “No. I won’t answer it.”

“Molly,” Sherlock’s voice almost broke.

“I don’t exactly know how to put it into words.” Molly admitted. “I’m in the background, I can see what happens. I’m not involved, I don’t count, I’m not part of the equation.”

Sherlock knew this. He hadn’t realized that when Molly had originally said that she didn’t count, she meant that she was the wild card. She didn’t count, because she was unpredictable.


	6. Plus One

“Molly,” Sherlock began. “You’ve always counted, and I’ve always trusted you.” He deliberately used the same phrasing as when she helped him fake his death. “You are wrong. You are underestimated, true, but that isn’t that same as not being important; far from it, in fact, you are so very important. You were, if you recall, instrumental in my takedown of Moriarty.”

Molly tittered nervously.

“I do not give ‘compliments’ lightly, Molly.” Sherlock continued, “and I believe there is the small matter of my having kissed you?” The detective paused. “Of course, you kissed me back. You do remember?”

“Of course I remember! You came crashing in the bloody window, Sherlock! And then never spoke of it again.” Molly said angrily.

“Yes, that was wrong of me. Social issues, not my strong suit.” Sherlock replied dismissively. “You enjoyed it.”

“It was a nice kiss,” Molly begrudged him.

“A nice kiss? It was the best kiss anyone has ever bestowed upon you, if I do say so myself.” Sherlock orated.

“Rather presumptuous of you,” Molly muttered.

“Are you implying that Moriarty, or that buffoon Tom, was a better kisser than I?” Sherlock demanded, his voice sharpening slightly.

“I,” Molly began.

“We finish each other’s sandwiches,” he interrupted, the jarring sentence coming up abruptly.

“Sorry?”

“You remember, of course, when I came back after the Moriarty debacle, I asked you to solve crimes with me. You interrupted, asking about dinner. Same principle, semantics. My previous statement is, I believe, the common phrase. Six o’clock, Thursday.”

“What?” Molly searched Sherlock’s impassive face for any detail of emotion.

“Six o’clock, this Thursday? If that doesn’t work, we could go on Friday; though Fridays tend to be busier, which was why I asked Thursday in the first place.”

“Oh. Um, no. I mean, yes, of course.” Molly looked down once more and took a deep breath to steady herself. “I’d love to.”


End file.
